


Antiphony

by queenofthepuddingbrains



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also..if you employ the Cas head tilt, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Destiel - Freeform, Gen, How Winchesters say 'I love you', Maybe...if you squint, Wincest - Freeform, emotionally constipated idiots, really it's just some musing on their sibling relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthepuddingbrains/pseuds/queenofthepuddingbrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antiphony (noun)—A song characterized by call and response and/or alternating sections of lyrics.  Likely present in Hebrew psalms, this practice was introduced to Christianity by Ignatius of Antioch, who visualized it as a performance between two choirs of angels.  </p><p>Or 5 Times a Winchester brother refused to say "I love you" back.  And 1 time they didn't.</p><p>Spoilers through 10 x 02</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antiphony

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I had to finish this before I could watch 10 x 03 tonight. So, even though I tried to leave the ending vague, it may not fit completely within canon after 10 x 02
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Antiphony (noun)—A song characterized by call and response and/or alternating sections of lyrics. Likely present in Hebrew psalms, this practice was introduced to Christianity by Ignatius of Antioch, who visualized it as a performance between two choirs of angels.**

_Shave and a haircut…_

1.

Dean sighed.

Dad and Sammy’s yelling was starting to rattle the walls. Even at a place like the Hot Scotch Rag motel, which prided itself on its hourly rates and *ahem* discretion, they were going to draw attention soon.

Dean considered intervening. God knows he’s had to get in the middle of his dad and his little brother often enough over the years. Trouble is, he has no idea what to say to this one. No clue how to make it better. Couldn’t even tell you what he thinks about the whole deal. Not that he would if he could, but that’s beside the point.

As Dad continued to lay into Sam about family and responsibility, Dean tuned him out. That speech, too, was plenty familiar, even if the ferocity with which Dad was spitting it at Sam’s face was new. Dean also let his attention slide from Sammy’s response. Based on the never-before-seen Level 11 Bitchface he was rocking, Sam was obviously determined not to back down from John one inch, and Dean was tired of listening to it.

Instead, he looked away from the center of the hotel room where his family stood yelling for all they were worth, down at the floor beside the worn bed he was sitting on. A small wad of paper was near his left foot. That was it. That was what had started this whole thing.

The letter.

Glancing up quickly to see if Dad and Sammy were still going at it (no surprise, they were), Dean picked the crumpled piece of paper up off the floor, cupping it gently in his hands.

His attention was drawn back to his dueling family members by a particularly loud expletive from John. Their father turned violently towards the door, and Dean was surprised to see a look of disgust on his father’s face usually reserved for the supernatural.

John grabbed his jacket from the bed opposite Dean, furiously pulling it on as he headed towards the door.

“Talk some sense into your brother,” He ordered Dean in a low growl, rushing out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

Silence settled over the two brothers as their father left. Sam remained in the middle of the room, arms crossed and clearly seething. But Dean could see that he was also hurt. At least that Dean might be able to fix.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to dispel the tension in the room with his patented smirk.

“Don’t worry about him too much, Sammy. Dad’ll go find a bar, have a drink or seven, and it will all be fine in the morning.”

“Don’t call me Sammy, Dean. I’m not a child,” Sam snapped, voice petulant like the kid he claimed not to be.

Dean rolled his eyes at the familiar response. He pushed down the urge to give Sam a hard time, though. Even if they didn’t know much about normal families, he knew that Sam deserved a better response than the one he got from their dad tonight. So now it was his job to cheer the kid up a little, try to get him to calm down before his pushed his lips so tightly together they disappeared right off his dumb face.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, _Sammy_ ,” Dean responded, broadening his smirk to shit-eating dimensions. “Just take a chill pill. C’mon. Dad’ll probably be gone for a while. I’ll take you to a movie or something.”

Sam simply glared in response.

“Sam…” Dean tried to inject understanding into his voice (Not that he understood this, because he sure as hell didn't. But better Dean pretend to be okay than Sammy not be okay)

“Don’t be such a little bitch.”

Dean was surprised when Sam didn't respond right away. And when he did answer, it wasn't anything Dean wanted to hear.

“You could have said something, you know,” Sam pointed out, his glare hot and his voice cold in a way that made Dean’s smile fall straight from his lips and settle into a tight knot in his stomach. “You could have told him you _agreed_ with me. You could have  _supported_  me. But no, wait! I forgot. Dean never stands against orders, does he?”

Then, proving once again, that most of John and Sam’s fights happened because they were too similar, not different, Sam grabbed his own jacket and stormed out of the room.

Dean stared dumbly after him for several seconds. When he finally tore his eyes from the now much abused room door, a crinkling sound drew his attention back to the piece of paper clenched in his hand. He was hit with a strong urge to crumple it tighter, push into it so hard that it disappeared, tear it into a thousand pieces, let his lighter turn it to ash like so many sets of bones. Anything to just make it disappear.

But Dean remembered Sam’s face when the letter arrived. The ear-splitting grin. That special Sammy grin. The one Dean used to be so good at bringing out, even with all the crap they dealt with. The one he hadn't seen in way too long.

So Dean forced his hand to gentle, smoothing the crumpled paper out over his knees. He snorted at the fancy letterhead. Who needed stupid stuff like that? _Sammy might_ , the voice in his head answered.

Sighing again, Dean stood up. He’d go find Dad first, leave Sammy to work through his bitchfest for a bit. If Dad wasn't already three sheets to the wind, he’d even try and get him to see how important this was to Sam. And, when Sam got back, Dean might even tell him that he had a point about standing up to Dad sometimes. Out loud and everything.

At the thought, Dean’s eyes caught on the words which had thrown his family into such turmoil:

_Dear Mr. Samuel Winchester,_

_Congratulations! On behalf of the faculty and staff of Stanford University, I am pleased to inform you of your acceptance…_

Before Dean headed out into the night, he gently laid the letter on the end table by the couch. He still didn't get it, but he knew Sammy would want the damn thing back.

And he was right.

In the morning, the letter was gone.

And so was Sam.

2.

Sam sighed. If Dean turned the volume up any louder, he was likely to blow out the Impala’s speakers. Throwing Dean’s over-protectiveness towards his “baby” into this mess would just make things worse. If that was even possible at this point.

4 days. It had been 4 days since Sam and Dean’s impromptu visit to Heaven. Since Joshua told them that they could forget about an eleventh hour reprieve from God.

4 days since Dean literally left his faith at the door. In a trash can.

4 days since Sam’s Heaven told Dean that Sam’s best memories didn't include him.

4 days since the gut wrenching feeling in Sam’s very soul at seeing Dean’s face at that realization made him realize that nothing could actually be farther from the truth.

4 days of trying to figure out a way to convince Dean of that.

4 days of despairing of ever getting through Dean’s newly reinforced wall to even attempt such a “chick flick” moment, much less get him to buy it.

As Robert Plant continued to assault his ear drums, Sam let his right hand drift from where he’d been keeping his arms tightly crossed. His hand dropped to his right pocket, and he gently traced the outline of the horned figure he found there. The amulet felt as if it was burning a hole through his pocket, just like it had ever since he pulled it from the trash.

4 days ago.

If only things with Dean were so easily salvaged.

Sam risked a glance to his left, where Dean was continuing to glare at the road ahead as if it had personally offended him.

Sam really shouldn't provoke him further. But he couldn't even hear himself think, and he had enough of a headache as it was.

He cautiously reach for the radio dial and turned it a few degrees to the left.

“What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” Dean’s angry growl was immediate.

“Oh, I don’t know Dean,” Sam fired back, “I thought it might be nice to retain _some_ of our hearing ability.”

His only response was Dean’s glare, now focused on Sam in all its ferocity ( _And, seriously, how did he do that while driving at 90 miles an hour without crashing?_ ).

Sam sighed again and turned the dial back to its previous window-shattering volume, and Dean grunted in approval as he turned back to face the road…

“I know, I know,” Sam capitulated, “Driver chooses the music, blah, blah, blah.”

Sam let a smile cross his face. “You don’t have to be such a jerk about it.”

Dean didn't reply. Sam could almost believe he hadn't heard him over the music. Except for his jaw. The muscles in Dean’s jaw jumped as he clenched them tightly. For all that Dean went on about Sam’s “bitchfaces”, Sam could always tell Dean’s mood by his jaw. And what he was doing right now? That’s the way Dean Winchester grinds his teeth when he is forcing himself not to say something.

Despite the roaring music, Sam suddenly found silence ringing in his ears, leaving him light headed and cold as it swept across him.

Suddenly, the weight of the amulet in his pocket seemed unbearably heavy. Maybe when they made a stopover at Bobby’s after this case in Minnesota he’d look for a more permanent place to store it.

Something told him it would be a long while before Dean would want it back.

3.

Dean smiled.

He found himself humming as he field stripped and cleaned his Colt. He was actually in a pretty decent mood.

The look on Crowley’s face when he had shuffled off with his bones, tail between his legs, had been priceless. Nearly as good as the look on Sammy’s face when he was stuck sitting next to Dean and his vomit bags on the flight to _and_ from Scotland. Although, come to think of it, Sammy hadn't responded with nearly as much outrage and wounded sensibilities as Dean would have expected.

At any rate, they reminded ol’ Fergus ( _Seriously, what kind of name was that?_ ) not to mess with the Winchesters, Bobby got his soul back, and soon he and Sammy would be headed off to Illinois for a case. Something about vampires, it looked like.

Ok, sure. Cas had been acting pretty weird lately, even for him. And now he and Sam had to deal with their recently resurrected grandfather who, as it turns out, it kind of a dick.

 _But_ , Sam was alive and _not_ serving eternity down in Luci’s cage, Bobby’s soul was back where it belonged, and chances were pretty good that Dean was going to get to kill something evil soon.

According to the Winchester standard definition of alright, the world was looking pretty good.

Colt neatly reassembled, Dean turned to where Sam sat doing some research, long limbs and hair both flopping ridiculously.

“You almost done with your homework over there, Samsquatch?” Dean called. “I want to get some food before we hit the road. Maybe some triple decker bacon cheeseburgers from that place down the street?”

“Yeah, sure, fine. Whatever.” Sam replied, without even glancing up from his book.

Dean, who had been wandering off towards the kitchen, turned to face his brother in surprise.

“What? No lecture about how horrible those ‘heart attacks on a bun’ are for me? You feeling alright, Sammy?”

At that, Sam did look up, his brow crinkling in confusion. “I’m fine, Dean. I just don’t really care what you eat. Why? Do you want me to give you a hard time or something?”

Dean shook his head. “No, ‘course not. If I never hear you wax poetic about the virtues of your rabbit food again, it’ll be too soon. You just always seem to get some sort of perverse thrill out of it. Bitch.”

Halfway through Dean’s sentence, Sam had already turned his attention back to his book.

“What was that?” he asked Dean halfheartedly, “Did you say something?”

“No,” Dean answered, something he refused to call horror in his tone, “No, I didn't say anything, Sammy.”

His voice croaked out on him towards the end. But it didn't matter. Sam had stopped listening again anyway.

And just like that, the world wasn't so good anymore.

4.

Dean didn't even dare sigh.

The Silence in the Impala was a physical thing, blanketing its two occupants and pressing down on them from all sides.

Dean’s fingers twitched anxiously to turn on the radio, but he held himself back. He wasn't sure if that was allowed. _And just how ridiculous a thought is that?_

Still, he had to do something. This Silence had been following them ever since they left Wisconsin. It had swollen throughout the Dakotas. And now, halfway through Nebraska, it had grown teeth.

The obnoxious ring of Sam’s cell phone cut the Silence aggressively, causing both of the car’s occupants to jump.

Sam answered.

“Hello.” He had to clear his throat the get the word out, vocal cords resistant after hours in the Silence.

Dean listened to Sam’s end of the conversation while pretending he wasn't at all interested. Not that he could get much from Sam’s terse “Yeah” “Okay” and “Sounds good; let us know.”

He thought that maybe Cas was calling again. He hadn't really had a chance to get the low down on him from Sam at the hospital, before they ending up chasing Garth out a window.

Speaking of….

“That was Garth.” Sam’s voice was cool, distant, and it took Dean a few seconds to realize he was actually speaking to him.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean pressed, trying not to let on how desperate he was for a conversation, any conversation, with his brother.

“Yeah. He just wanted to let us know that he and Bess have gotten everything settled with the clan. Grantsburg authorities shouldn't be a problem.

“Well that’s…um…that’s good,” Dean offered. “I hope it all works out for them.

“Really?” Sam countered, eyebrow raised and voice heavy with skepticism. “You hope the _werewolves_ live happily ever after? Think that’s even possible?”

“Why not?” Dean defended. “Garth is still a good guy, despite it all. If he’s found something that makes him happy, then yeah, I damn well hope he gets to keep it!”

“Besides, Sam,” and Dean was smirking now, “you shouldn't be so harsh. Not all supernatural creatures are evil you know.”

“That’s what I was saying from the beginning,” Sam cried in outrage, throwing his hands up. “In fact, I’m always the one that’s trying to get that through _your_ dumb skull.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean allowed, “but that’s just because you've always been a little bitch.”

Dean froze as the word was coming out of his mouth. Like the Silence, he almost thought he could see it take physical form, falling from his lips before he could cram it back in and tearing through the vague glimmer of goodwill that had crept into the car.

Sam shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He cleared his throat, and whether it was an attempt to stop his own words or to try and create some, Dean couldn't tell. Whichever it was hardly seemed to matter. After a few agonizing seconds, Sam simply turned his head away to stare out the Impala’s passenger window.

Dean grit his teeth and focused on the road ahead.

The Silence, beaten back for a brief instant, made itself fully felt once more.

As the Impala rumbled through Nebraska, the Silence sank its teeth into both Dean and Sam, bearing down with a vengeance. By the time a sign appeared welcoming travelers to Kansas, Dean had decided that he would much prefer a werewolf bite.

5.

Sam yelled.

“You are such a jerk, Dean!”

Sam spit the accusation out wrathfully, his breath labored with exertion.

“This is all your fault. If you hadn't been such a stubborn, pigheaded, stupid jerk!”

Sam paused, resettling the load in his arms to carry it better.

“I swear to God, you jerk, when this is all over, you are going to owe me so much!”

Finally, Sam reached the Impala. He opened her rear door and carefully let the weight on his shoulders settle gently into the back seat.

“Do you hear me, Dean? Do you, _Jerk?_ ”

Sam’s voice broke on the last word as he hurled it into Dean’s face. But, of course Dean didn't hear him.

Sam stared at Dean for a second longer, stared at the body slumped lifelessly in the Impala’s back seat.

Then he forced himself to shut the door. Forced himself to sit in the driver’s seat. Forced himself to turn the key in the ignition.

“Come on, Baby,” Sam whispered, voice stricken, “Let’s get him home.”

 

 

+1

Sam cringed.

Dean was right. Joffrey is such a dick.

At least the rerun of “Game of Thrones” looked good. As much as Sam respected the history and ambiance of the Men of Letters bunker, he had to admit that agreeing to make over one of the study rooms into a den was a good idea. Their new television and freshly “appropriated” cable meant that Sam and Dean could relax and watch Joffrey’s sadism in all its HD glory.

The episode ended, playing out to the credits in a haunting melody. Sam, having the longer arm span, managed to grab the remote before Dean did. Not, Sam noticed, that Dean tried very hard to fight him for it.

Checking the guide function, Sam noticed that a documentary, not the next episode of GoT, was due to air next on HBO. So he started flipping through the channels, looking for something else to watch.

It was just as well, really. Given recent events, some of the content of “Game of Thrones” made him squirm more now than it used to. And, really, they had only been able to catch an episode here and there. It made following all the plotlines kind of difficult. Really, they ought to marathon Season 2 straight through the way they did Season 1.

Sam glanced to his left to suggest buying the DVDs for a proper viewing, but the words died on his lips.

Dean looked uncomfortable. And Sam couldn’t help wondering why. Did the gore on ‘Thrones’ bother him more now too? Or was it just being around Sam?

Internally, Sam beat his head against a wall. He didn't think it would be _this_ difficult. He knew, rationally speaking, that it would take Dean and himself a while to fall back into some sort of rhythm. He even admitted, if only to himself and with no small amount of regret, that they would probably never fully get back to the way they were before.

Then again, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. The way they were hadn’t really been working, not for a while. Sure, it helped them survive, at least most of the time. But just surviving was exhausting. Just surviving wasn’t worth fighting for. Not anymore.

If Sam had learned anything over the last couple of months, it’s that he actually did want to _live._

Whatever the hell that actually meant, Sam hadn't figured out yet. But he knew he wanted to try. And he wanted Dean to try with him.

Sam shook himself from his thoughts and realized he’d been sitting with the television on the Home Shopping Network for at least a minute. He steeled himself for a comment from Dean.

( _“What’s up, Samantha? Looking for a nice pair of earrings to set off your hairstyle?_ )

But there was nothing.

Sam felt his hands clenching into fists at his side. He started cycling through the channels again, pressing the buttons of the remote violently as he felt his frustration boiling.

He wasn’t looking for a magical fix overnight. He just wanted...

What was it he wanted?

Sam couldn’t keep doing this—just existing in the same space with Dean. Orbiting around one another and walking on eggshells.

At the same time, Sam knew he wasn’t ready to try and manufacture a big Hallmark moment. Sooner or later, he and Dean would talk it out. Or fight it out.

But until then, Sam just wanted some way to reassure Dean that they’d get there. He wanted some acknowledgement from his big brother that Dean believed they could find their way back too.

But so much had happened. The problems between them were so big. And there were still things they needed to do. Neither one of them was going to give up until they found a way to help Cas. And after that it would be something else. It always was.

But before all that, right now, they had a moment to be just Sam and Dean. If only Sam could figure out what to _do_ with the moment.

Sam flicked through his thoughts faster than the channels now. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to think of any words (in English, Latin, or Enochian) that could make Dean understand what he wanted to say…

…That’s a lie actually. Sam knew the perfect way to say it. He just wasn’t sure he was brave enough anymore.

On the television, USA Network was playing “The Butterfly Effect”. Sam raised the remote the change the channel again.

As he did, he caught a glimpse of Dean out of the corner of his eye. Exhausted, apathetic, uncomfortable in his own skin.

Sammy’s big brother had been brave for him all his life. So, Sam would be the brave one this time.

Sam lowered the remote, leaving the TV on USA, and waited.

It took 2 minutes.

“Really, Sammy?” Dean grunted.

Sam fought back a smile.

“Seriously, dude!” Dean insisted. “It’s rule one: No Kutcher.”

“I happen to like this movie,” Sam informed Dean primly. “Besides, you picked ‘Game of Thrones’. It’s my turn.”

_Deep breath._

“Jerk.”

Dean’s spine straightened as if he’d been electrocuted. His eyes jerked to Sam, furtively, like a cornered animal.

Sam met his gaze head on, letting Dean read whatever he wanted from his eyes, hoping with all the tattered faith he had left that the message Dean was getting is the one Sam meant to send.

The moment stretched for hours, decades, a lifetime.

Then Dean unwound. In one, quick motion he grabbed the remote from Sam, relaxing back into the couch with a huff.

“Bitch”

The two brothers turned back to the television with smiles that had nothing to do with the show they were watching.

The world outside would interrupt the fragile moment all too soon.

But, that’s okay.

The moment was enough.

 

_...Two bits_

**Author's Note:**

> I first got the idea for this fic when we got the first preview clip for 10 x 01 and everyone was freaking out about the Crowley/Dean "Jerk"/"Bitch" exchange.
> 
> Some wonderful person on tumblr pointed out that it was Crowley that initiated that change and posed the valid (if heartbreaking) question of: 'How long has it been since Dean was afraid to prompt Sam with "Bitch" because he didn't think Sam would respond?' 
> 
> Which led me to musing about what Sam and Dean are really saying during those exchanges.
> 
> Which led to this.
> 
> (Like an idiot, I did not reblog/like said tumblr post and I cannot remember who made it. If you should happen to read this, dear OP, or someone else knows what I'm talking about, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due. Thank you!)


End file.
